


how far do i have to go (to get to you)

by bucketofrice



Series: together, oceans apart [1]
Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Before Sunrise AU, F/M, also gratuitous fluff, and he hates it, en route to vienna, oh my, scott is on a train, trams and ferris wheels and cafés
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-07-29 21:40:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16272893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bucketofrice/pseuds/bucketofrice
Summary: “Alright, I have an admittedly insane idea but I have to ask you this, or it’s just going to haunt me for the rest of my life. I want to keep talking to you. I have no idea what your situation is, but I feel like we have some kind of connection, right?”She nods, and hope begins to grow in his chest, a delicate little flower. She smiles and it blossoms. “Yeah, me too.”This is his only chance and he knows it. He takes the plunge. “So listen, here’s the deal. You should get off the train with me here in Vienna, come check out the town.”





	1. you can't waste the day wishing it'd slow down

**Author's Note:**

> I watched _Before Sunrise_ on a long plane ride recently and fell in love with the film. And then, because I was still on said plane with little to do, my brain decided to imagine our favourite skating partners in this same scenario.
> 
> Fast-forward to a few months later, and here we are. This is my first film AU, so please be gentle.
> 
> Title and chapter titles are from "Many the Miles" by Sara Bareilles.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A train ride to Vienna, bickering strangers and coffee.

Scott hates this train. 

Like, fully, actually despises the fact that he is currently on this particular train, in this particular car. It was fine when he got on in Budapest, and fine for the next half hour, but then the door to the carriage opened and it all went downhill from there.

Now, forty minutes later and approaching Györ, he has decided that he really fucking hates this train.

It might be because he is sitting in the opposite direction of the way they’re moving, it might be because of the old, probably senile man five rows down who’s snoring so loudly that it sounds like he’s sawing down a giant pine tree, it might be because this book that he bought from the train station’s bookshop (which had an admittedly limited English-language selection) is more boring than watching paint dry.

It might be all of those things combined, sure, but the main reason why he fucking hates this particular train is probably in their late 50s and has no sense of common decency and indoor speaking voices. They’re in a _train_ for fuck’s sake, and everyone can hear them.

The reason he hates this train is the middle-aged couple sitting diagonally across from him—he’s reading a newspaper and she’s eyeing her husband with so much side-eye that Scott is mildly concerned her eyeballs will get permanently stuck in their current position. They started arguing half an hour ago, and they haven’t stopped since.

Beyond the fact that neither of them have managed to constrain themselves to a hushed whisper (or even a stage whisper, that’d do at this point, honestly), Scott can’t even properly eavesdrop on what’s going on. They’re speaking German, that much he’s gathered, and she’s clearly furious with him for some unknown reason.

“Könntest du diese verdammte Zeitung endlich weglegen und mir zuhören?” she hisses and Scott lets his book drop to his lap, taking a deep steadying breath before exhaling. He rubs his temple and wishes for the umpteenth time that he hadn’t lost his headphones last night, somewhere in a public park in Hungary—and not realized it till ten minutes ago, when he made his first attempt to block out this argument.

But, no dice, and so he gets to sit here, in this godforsaken train carriage, and listen to the petty argument these two have got going on. By the looks of the man’s response, this particular fight has been a long time coming.

“Das mach ich jetzt schon seit fünfzehn Jahren! Könntest du mir einen Gefallen tun, und mich endlich in Ruhe lassen?”

“Ich lass dich so gerne in Ruhe, aber ich mach dir einen Vorschlag: du lasst mich auch in Ruhe!” When the woman stops speaking, she lets out a huff and turns her head away. It’s quiet for a blissful thirty seconds, and Scott dares to hope again.

Maybe this train ride won’t be so bad after all.

He’s just shut his eyes when he hears a sound—a hand smacking down on newsprint—and he jolts up in is seat. His eyes fly open just as he sees the man across from him guffaw, his newspaper in a crumpled heap on his lap. His wife looks positively triumphant.

Has Scott mentioned that he hates this train?

He thinks this has to be the end of it, that no argument can possibly follow the newspaper-smacking, but pretty soon they’re at it again and he wants to scream. Okay, he thinks, this is it.

He gets up out of his seat, grabs his book and cap and phone and water bottle, and fishes his bag out of the compartment above. He spots an empty seat at the other end of the carriage and walks over. It’s not reserved till Innsbruck, and he lets out a sigh of relief before depositing his things and settling down again.

Even half a train car made a world’s worth of difference—the bickering isn’t nearly as loud as it was before. He hears it still, but much like the gentleman’s continued snoring, he can try to drown it out and focus on his book. He’s half a page in when he remembers that this is the most boring book he’s ever tried to read so he gives up on that too, setting it aside and staring idly out the window.

Eventually, he turns his head (the view out the other side could be different, maybe) and looks across the aisle. The landscape whizzing by is much the same on the other side of the train, pastures and electrical wires and the occasional cow, but there’s one difference.

Across the aisle from him is a woman, probably not much younger than he is. She has her nose buried in a book, and her long hair is fanning her face as she focuses intently on the page.

She’s beautiful and he can’t tear his eyes away.

He realizes it’s objectively creepy that he hasn’t looked away yet, but she is enchanting, in plain blue jeans and a soft navy sweater, her Adidas-clad feet tucked neatly under her legs. She’s leaning with one shoulder on the window, glancing down and fully absorbed in her novel.

He’s entranced—and also incredibly impressed she’s managed to drone out all the bickering.

He’s been looking for a beat too long now, he thinks, and with a sigh he turns his head back to his own window and the matching landscape. He’s determinedly trying to count a herd of cows when he hears footsteps approaching. _Oh for Christ’s sake._

It’s them again.

“Ich geh jetzt in den Speisewagen!” the woman announces, and he sincerely hopes this means that she’s leaving the car, because she’s heading for the door. Her husband is running to catch up to her, bounding down the aisle at an impressive speed.

“Jetzt bleib doch einen Augenblick—” he says, and Scott wishes for the millionth time that he’d chosen to take another language in school besides his required French courses. Not that he’d been particularly good at those to begin with.

It turns out his hopes are coming true, because the woman leaves the car, her husband on her heels, and the sliding door slams shut with a resounding _thunk_.

_Oh thank fuck._

The door slamming shut was apparently loud enough to tear the woman sitting across the aisle away from her book, because their eyes catch as he leans back into his own seat. They’re emerald green, he notices, even from a distance. They’re gorgeous.

No matter how gorgeous, spontaneous eye contact with a stranger is always awkward, and they both soon let out breathy chuckles. The brunette cocks an eyebrow and laughs, gesturing to the carriage door and shrugging her shoulders.

Scott grins and leans forward. “Do you have any idea what they were arguing about?” he asks, before realizing that he doesn’t even know if she speaks English. He’s about to ask when she laughs again and shakes her head, leaning in too.

“No clue, I’m sorry. But it must’ve been serious.” She leans further across the aisle. “At least for her.” She giggles, and Scott’s grin widens.

 _Well, actually_ , he thinks, _two clues_. First, she’s fluent, and second, that pronunciation of sorry is unmistakeable. He’s about to ask about it when she speaks again.

“I took a psychology class once,” she says, and her eyes sparkle with mirth. “On relationships. They said that as couples get older, they literally lose their ability to hear each other. Women stop hearing lower-pitched sounds, and men can’t hear the high-pitched ones anymore.”

He has to laugh, because yeah, for those two that seems about right, and she joins in and he realizes pretty soon that her laugh is one of the best things he thinks he’s ever heard.

“Yeah, she looked like she was about to whack him over the head with that newspaper,” he says. “Would’ve made for quite the scene, eh?”

The door slides back open and the couple comes storming through again—she’s muttering something about “Du musstest sie nicht alle anglotzen!” and he looks sufficiently put-out—and Scott knows that this argument is far from over.

He needs and escape plan. And by the look on his neighbour’s face, she wants one too.

“Hey, I was gonna head to the dining car and get a coffee,” he says. “Want to join?”

She shoots him a grateful smile and stands up, nodding. “Yeah, let me grab my phone.”

They’re silent on the way through the train, and slip into opposite sides of a small booth after getting coffee from the bar. He ordered a black coffee with milk, and she has a cappuccino (there was no almond milk, like she wanted, so regular for her too). After stirring sugar into their coffees, they look up and both try to speak.

“Are you from Ca—”

“You’re Canadian—”

They promptly burst out into laughter.

“Yes, I’m Canadian,” he says, grinning. “And it appears you are too.”

“Yeah.” She blushes and grips her coffee cup tighter.

“I’m Scott,” he says, holding out his hand so she can shake it. He can’t believe he didn’t introduce himself earlier.

She takes it and smiles. “Tessa.”

When they touch, he feels a bolt of static in his veins, but he decides to ignore it. It’s probably just from the synthetic seat fabric.

“So, Tessa, where are you headed?” He leans back on his seat, keeping his body language open and smile bright.

“Paris. You?”

“Vienna.”

“Are you on vacation?” He wonders briefly why she’s travelling alone.

She shakes her head. “No, I’ve lived in Paris for a few years now. I work in fashion, nothing fancy, but I had to meet with a client in Budapest.” She glances down at her coffee, and he thinks she looks self-conscious, so he’s about to say he thinks it’s awesome that she’s living in Paris when she speaks up again.

“And you? Any plans in Vienna?”

“I have a flight back home in the morning. I’m just there for a few hours till it leaves.”

“Well, I hope you get to see something nice while you’re there.”

He smiles. “I hope so too.” They lapse into comfortable silence, sipping their coffee and watching the scenery whizz by.

“Where’s home for you?” she asks a few minutes later.

“Well, I live in Montreal right now, but I’m from Ilderton, Ontario, it’s right outside of—”

“I know Ilderton!” Her eyes are bright and she’s grinning. “I grew up in London.”

“No way, that’s crazy. So how did you end up in Paris?”

“I did my degree at Western and then moved to Toronto, where I got hired by a company based in Paris. A few years in, they had me transferred.”

“That’s amazing, congrats!” She blushes and he leans forward, just a little.

“So have you just seen Budapest?”

“I’ve kind of been all around, really.” He tells her that he’s been riding the trains for the past two weeks, criss-crossing the continent. He says he’s not on vacation, per se, and it’s really not a lie—he actually doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing at the moment. Except travelling, and hopping on trains and off in cities that he hasn’t really had an opportunity to visit before. Not like this.

Not alone, without a plan or anyone he’s tethered to.

It’s freeing, on the one hand. And terrifying on the other. Scott has never been one for solitude, and he’s had plenty of it in the past few weeks. He’s grateful for Tessa’s company.

“Are you looking forward to going home?” He looks up again and meets her eyes, soft and kind. He’s struck once again by how green they are.

Is he? Is he looking forward to home? He doesn’t really know.

Sure, he’s happy at his job and excited to see Marie and Patch and Sam again, but he’s not sure how it’ll feel to re-enter his apartment.

He doesn’t tell Tessa this, though. For her, he plasters on a smile and says of course he is, because the Italians may know how to make a good espresso but nothing beats a double-double and she laughs at that and his fake smile transforms into a real one.

They fall into conversation easily, bouncing off of one another and cracking jokes. He thinks it’s surprisingly easy to talk to her, and that it’s almost like he’s known her forever, not barely over a half hour.

She tells him that she grew up in London, and started dancing when she was three. When she was nine, she was scouted for the National Ballet, and boarded at their school. She was on a fast-track to join the company.

But her legs had other ideas, and after two failed surgeries and more pain than he can ever imagine one person going through, she had to hang up the pointe shoes and went to university instead. Now, she works in fashion and teaches dance classes on the side.

He tells her that he grew up on the ice, in his parents’ rink, that he was supposed to be an ice dancer but skated singles instead after never finding a partner. He skated competitively for years, but now he coaches in Montreal, with his former mentors.

He doesn’t mention why he quit and she doesn’t ask and he’s grateful for it.

They talk about Canada, about home and their families and he doesn’t notice the hours passing until the heavily-accented announcement comes through the speaker. They’ll be in Vienna in ten minutes.

Ten minutes. It’s not enough time—not enough at all.

He realizes it with alarming clarity; he’s not done talking to Tessa, spending time with her, learning about her, joking with her. But they have to part ways in ten minutes. Right now, that seems like the worst prospect in the world.

He has to leave this woman—this beautiful, whip-smart, hilarious woman—and traipse through the streets of Vienna alone before cramming himself into a metal tube tomorrow morning. He doesn’t want to, not one bit.

When you do a jump in figure skating, it’s all about the approach. You have to prepare your body, get into position at precisely the right angle, push off, hold tight and hope and pray that you land right. The landing is the most unpredictable part of the whole endeavour.

Scott has attempted and executed a number of jumps over the course of his life and his career. Axels, lutzes, you name it. But this jump—the one his brain is foolishly suggesting he gear up for—might be the most difficult one he’s ever tried.

He takes a deep breath and leans forward, propping his elbows up on the table. He’s been fiddling with his sugar wrapper and he balls it up before throwing it into his empty coffee cup.

Tessa is smiling at him, that easy smile she adopted ten minutes into their conversation and he takes a second to take her in. The gorgeous green eyes, the laugh lines, the freckles, the wisps of hair that frame her face. If he does have to say goodbye in eight minutes, he wants to remember her.

But if he lands this right, he might not have to just yet.

He wants more conversations with her, wants to know her favourite book, her favourite colour and what movie she watches when she can’t find anything new on Netflix. He wants to know what makes her tick, what it’s like to lose a dream before you’re twenty and readjust your whole life. He wants to know her, in any way he can.

So he takes the chance.

“Alright, I have an admittedly insane idea but I have to ask you this, or it’s just going to haunt me for the rest of my life. I want to keep talking to you. I have no idea what your situation is, but I feel like we have some kind of connection, right?”

She nods, and hope begins to grow in his chest, a delicate little flower. She smiles and it blossoms. “Yeah, me too.”

This is his only chance and he knows it. He takes the plunge. “So listen, here’s the deal. You should get off the train with me here in Vienna, come check out the town.”

“I should—what?”

“Come with me.” He takes her hand and gives it a squeeze. “Seriously. I don’t have a hotel for the night and I was just going to walk through the city and take in the sights. All I know is that I have to catch an Austrian Airlines flight tomorrow morning at 9:30.”

He looks at her, eyes wide and sporting his best puppy-dog look, hoping that she’ll take the plunge and do something utterly reckless. He doesn’t want to part with her just yet.

“And, and if I turn out to be some kind of psycho—” he isn’t, but he thinks he should reassure her “—you can hop on the next train.”

She scoffs.

“Alright, think of it like this. Jump ahead in your life—ten, twenty years, okay? You’re married and your relationship is in a rut. You think about the spark you used to have, and you start remembering the other guys you met throughout your life.”

Tessa laughs, shaking her head.

“I’m one of those guys! And this—this is time travel. You get to have the what-if, just for one night. And when you think back to this night in the future, you’ll smile fondly and remember Scott,” he gestures to himself for emphasis, “and you’ll realize you didn’t miss out on anything and you’re happy right where you are.”

Tessa looks at him, her eyes crinkling and he’d be a liar if he said he weren’t nervous as all hell right now, practically holding his breath.

A beat later, she speaks again.

“I don’t know why I’m saying this, but okay. Let me get my bag.”

He fist-pumps the air and grins so hard he’s a bit scared his face might split in two. She said yes. She’s coming with him to Vienna. He doesn’t have to say goodbye to Tessa quite yet.

He pushed off, jumped, and stuck the landing.


	2. now and again, i lose sight of the good life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tram ride, nicknames, and palm reading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, thank you so much for the absolutely lovely reception of this so far! I'm overwhelmed in the best way. This chapter sticks pretty close to the movie plot but leaves out some things (either because they didn't really add anything or were geographically impossible *cough* Friedhof der Namenslosen is an HOUR from the Prater). This has been so fun to write because I've been to most of the places mentioned, so it's been a lovely and nostalgic ride.
> 
> This is Tessa POV, and a Fiacker is a Viennese horse-drawn carriage.

Tessa cannot quite believe she actually agreed to this.

They just got off the train and are standing on the platform, bags in hand and no plans in sight. She’s gripping her suitcase handle like a vice, trying her hardest not to hyperventilate. It’s one thing to be sitting in a train car with a charming stranger who suggests you hop off and explore a city with him — it’s a whole other thing to _actually do that_.

Yeah, this is kind of mad.

But the thing is (and this might be the part that scares Tessa the most) there’s a tiny part of her that’s saying she’s needed to do something like this — something daring, something reckless, something unexpected — for a while now. Sometimes, you just have to trust the stranger with the soft eyes and freakishly expressive eyebrows, apparently. Sometimes, you have to take a leap and grand jeté your way into a foreign country.

She takes a deep, steadying breath and turns to Scott. “Now what?”

He smiles, with that broad, expressive smile that got her hooked in the first place, full of wide-eyed excitement. “They’ve got to have lockers somewhere around here, right?”

Oh dear.

It turns out that the Viennese central station does indeed have lockers (with 24-hour security, a porter and keys in place of combination locks, which Tessa _definitely_ checked) and pretty soon, they’ve stored their suitcases away and she’s left with a small backpack full of just the essentials.

She can tell that Scott is getting more excited by the minute, and it’s only heightened as they step outside the train station and into the afternoon sun.

Tessa has been to Vienna before, but always on business and never without a strict schedule. Now, however, she’s here with someone who’s practically a stranger, with no itinerary in sight, and, most worryingly, no hotel. She’s very close to reconsidering her momentary excitement and slipping right back into panic mode when Scott pulls an already-crumpled map out of his back pocket.

“Okay,” he starts, his eyes glittering with anticipation, “we have to get into the city centre somehow. We could go this way—” he points to the map and a street that vaguely looks like it leads in the right direction “—or here?”

She lets him manoeuvre the map to and fro for a minute or so before taking pity on him and pulling out her phone. “I’ve got an international plan for work,” she says, unable to suppress a slight laugh, and cues up the directions.

 

They’re on the tram a few minutes later, taking in the architecture and passerby as they head toward the city centre. It’s beautiful, classic architecture with lush parks and quaint cafés, just like she remembers. After a bit of people- and building-watching, she starts watching Scott instead.

He told her it’s his first time in the city, and she can’t help but smile as she watches him take in the grandeur. It’s something she’s always loved about this city — the fact that its inhabitants can make such an objectively imposing and stately place feel like a home.

They’ve managed to snag seats next to one another at the back of the tram, and Scott turns to her. He looks excited (again) and for what feels like the millionth time today, she doesn’t know whether she should share in the feeling or be scared. “It’s Q&A time,” he announces with a smile on his face, and then he actually claps his hands.

It’s… what now?

“We’ve known each other a little while now, we’re stuck together and we’re gonna ask each other some questions. And you have to answer one hundred percent honestly.” The glint is back in his eye and he looks so pleased with himself. She wants to wipe the smirk right off of his pretty little face.

“What’s the first thing that attracts you to someone?”

He really went there, didn’t he, she can’t help but think. He really went there, and it’s a problem, because she can’t really say _brown, tousled hair and hazel eyes and overly expressive eyebrows and the softest of smiles_ and not come across as a complete idiot.

She has to think for a bit, and she hopes it comes across as cute and coy, and not like she’s trying to find something that won’t actively give away that she thinks he’s really really good-looking. His ego does _not_ need the boost.

“I think someone’s sense of humour,” is what she ends up settling on, and she’s kind of proud of her answer. Not too specific, not looks-focused, shows she appreciates someone who’s funny. 

Scott grins. “And here I was, thinking you’d say you’re a fan of the flow.” He makes a show of running a hand through his hair and gasps in mock-offence and she can’t help but laugh. Damn this man.

“Okay, my turn.” It’s high time she got some control back in this situation. “Have you ever been in love?”

His answer is surprisingly short. “Yes. Next question.”

“Wait, hold on,” she says. “You can’t just pivot like that. One-word answers don’t count!”

He lets out a huff. “Fine, you’re right. I mean, I have told someone I love them before and I meant it. But was it totally self-giving love? Was it the ‘I want to grow old with you’ kind of love? I don’t know.”

Their conversation has taken a turn for the serious that she didn’t quite expect and she squeezes his shoulder. There has to be a deeper reason for his change in demeanour, and she’s not sure it’s the time to unpack it yet. “I get that, I really do,” she says instead. He smiles again, but it’s laced with melancholy and she can’t bear to see him sad. “Your turn.” She hopes that he’ll take the chance to flip the direction they’re headed in.

“Tell me something that really pisses you off?”

She laughs. There are lots of things. “Tardiness, when people don’t use the Oxford comma, rudeness, white chocolate, a lack of coffee… I could go on. Oh and mornings! I really can’t stand mornings.”

Scott laughs, and she has to join in. “You’ve really got an impressive list there, Tess.”

 

They get off the tram at the Karlsplatz and make their way through the square, steering clear of the pigeons and tourists that litter its every corner. It’s surprisingly easy, she thinks, to walk the streets with him and laugh and joke and talk about everything and nothing all at once.

It doesn’t feel like they’ve only known each other for a few hours. Scott doesn’t feel like a stranger to her, not anymore, and it scares her just a little, that she’s becoming so comfortable in his presence.

Tessa wouldn’t call herself stand-offish, not at all, it’s just that it typically takes her a bit to warm up to new people, to really let them in. But it’s different with Scott. With him, she wants to open up, wants to tell him things and make him smile and listen to him laugh.

It scares her a bit, but it’s also the best feeling, and she thinks it’s okay, maybe, if only for the fact that they’ve only got tonight and she’ll be gone by morning — that they’ll once again be strangers in just a few short hours.

The streets of Vienna are beautiful as ever, and she loves that the look of awe on Scott’s face hasn’t disappeared as he’s gotten a closer look at all the buildings. He’s entranced and she’s delighted, and if she takes a picture of him while he’s not looking, well then she’s just preparing for the time-travel, like he said on the train.

After all, a picture says a thousand words. When she looks back on this moment in twenty years’ time, she wants to have volumes.

“Tess,” he says, breaking the comfortable silence they’d fallen into. “I think we’ve come to the point in this trip where we discuss the important things.”

“And what would those be?” _And how has he already managed to shorten her name and make it one of her new favourite things?_

“Nicknames. Every friend needs a good nickname.”

Well, speak of the devil. She can’t help but laugh. “Oh, do they really? Well, you seem to have gotten a head start.”

He nods eagerly. “And I’m just getting started. So you like Tess? How about T?” She nods, that could work. “T-Girl? T-Bone? Tutu? Tessie? T-Dawg?” They’re getting worse by the minute and he’s got her reduced to peals of laughter.

“That bad?” he asks, feigning offence, and she tries to catch her breath.

“It’s just a lot at once! How about Scottie, for you?”

At that, he scrunches up his whole face, his eyebrows shooting upward adorably. “Oh my god, my mother used to call me that when I got in trouble as a little kid.”

She starts giggling, because yeah, that’s a mental image she never knew she needed in her life. “Okay, okay, no Scottie then, just Scott.”

He wraps an arm around her and pulls her in, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Thanks, kiddo.” And huh, if that one doesn’t do funny things to her insides.

She’s a bit surprised when he lights up a the sight of a nearby record store — she never would’ve pegged him as the type — and all but pulls her inside. The store is bright and airy and stocked floor to ceiling with records old and new. They get lost in the stacks fairly quickly, flipping through the vinyl and cardboard on the hunt for that special something.

She stops by record stores every once in a while, because the feeling never gets old, and now it’s just the same. Familiar and new all at once.

Scott sidles over to her as she’s pulling out a record by _the Hip_. “Fancy seeing them halfway across the world, eh?” he says, a nostalgic kind of look taking up residence on his face.

“Yeah,” she says. She doesn’t mention the sizeable _Hip_ collection on her Spotify playlists, a transfer from her old iPod shuffle. They were a constant presence for her — both at the National, and then, when it all fell apart. She wonders if they were the same for him. She doesn’t ask though, instead she cocks her head toward the end of the shop. “They’ve got a listening booth in the back.”

There’s a particular feeling associated with the confines of a listening booth, with being surrounded by nothing but the music. It’s overwhelming, just a bit, but in a good way. It reminds Tessa of when she used to get deep into a piece of music, truly feel herself into it, into every note that she’d translate out into movement. It feels a bit like home.

Now, she thinks, she also knows the particular feeling of being inside a listening booth with Scott. It’s also overwhelming, but in the best way. He’s _so close_ , she can feel his breath on the back of her neck, and with any other guy it would be creepy as all hell. Not with him, with him it just makes all her hairs stand on end and prickle in anticipation.

 _The Hip_ sing about it being “well worth the wait” and Tessa can’t help but think that in some weird way, she’s been waiting her whole life for a night like this — for a guy like this.

The song ends, and, yeah, the moment went on for long enough. She takes the needle off the record because her thoughts just veered into a very dangerous direction and besides, they have so much of the city left to see. Scott, thankfully, seems to get it, because he opens the door and smiles at her.

“Where are we going next?”

 

They end up at the Prater, Vienna’s historic amusement park, in line for the Ferris wheel. The sun is beginning to set, and by the time they get on (in an empty compartment, no less) the sky has taken on a stunning pink and purple hue. Tessa takes a walk around the little compartment, taking in Vienna from all sides and trying to memorize it all. The red roofs, the Stephansdom clock tower, the Danube river below.

Scott is doing the same, pacing around the tiny cubicle. Eventually, he turns to look at her. His eyes are softer than she’s ever seen them before. 

“This is gorgeous. We’ve got a … we’ve got a sunset here.” He trails off and moves toward the window, bracing himself on the railing as he takes a steadying breath. He turns back around and makes a sweeping motion. “We’ve got the Ferris wheel. It’s seems like it’s supposed to be… you know, a…” He runs his hands through his hair awkwardly and blushes, a scarlet flush that starts at the base of his neck and spreads to the tips of his ears.

She’s really got to put him out of his misery. She steps into his space and looks up at those disarmingly charming eyes of his, deep and flecked with hazel. He’s looking down at her, flicking between her eyes and her lips and oh, she could get used to this.

“Are you trying to say you want to kiss me?”

He nods, just a fraction of a degree, but it’s all it takes for her to push herself up on her tiptoes. When their lips meet, it’s like everything she was expecting and nothing like it at all. He kisses like he acts, with full-body enthusiasm. He wraps his arms around her neck and she fists hers in his hair and he presses impossibly close.

His lips are softer than she expected (not that she’s thought about them a lot … no, not at all), and when his tongue traces the seam of her lips and she grants him access, she swears this might be the best kiss she’s ever had.

Every kiss has to come to an end, what with the need for oxygen and all, and as she pulls away she can’t bear to go far, so she wraps her arms around him in a hug instead. He buries his face in the crook of her neck and for some bizarre reason their breathing synchs and the last thing her brain screams out is _home, home, home_.

 

The sound of a Fiacker heading out into the distance startles her out of her reverie. They’re sitting at a café on the Franziskanerplatz — aptly named Kleines Café, or _little café_ , that much German she understands — sipping on coffee and splitting a pastry and a rye bread with butter and ham. It’s comfortably warm outside, with a breeze, and Scott’s arm is draped over the back of her chair.

He leans in and lowers his voice to a whisper. “Can I tell you a secret?” he asks, and she nods, and he moves closer still. When he catches her lips in a slow kiss, she smiles into his mouth. This might be reckless, and daring, and unexpected — but Scott makes it feel safe, and so so right.

She pulls away with a bashful smile and takes a sip of her coffee. They are still in public, after all. Behind his shoulder, she spots an older woman in a colourful dress, with a scarf tied around her head, her curly hair billowing out from beneath it. She jingles with every step she takes, and Tessa can’t help but be entranced.

“I think she’s a palm reader,” she whispers to Scott once she’s gotten him to turn around and look. 

“Do you believe in stuff like that?” he asks, looking a bit dumb-founded.

“You don’t?”

He shrugs his shoulders just as the woman changes course and heads toward their table. Tessa shoots him a glance and he holds up his hands as if to say _you, not me_. Sure enough, the palm reader makes a beeline for Tessa.

“Ich möchte deine Hand lesen,” the woman says, looking Tessa in the eyes. She thinks she knows what she wants, but she’s not sure. 

“English, Français?” she tries.

Sure enough, the older woman switches into English, taking Tessa’s hand in her own calloused ones. “I want your palm read.”

There’s nothing to do but nod and let her go on, in her slightly nasal, accented voice. She runs her fingers over the lines in the palm of her hand, stopping every once in a while and smiling to herself. “So, you have been on a journey and you are a stranger to this place,” she says, and yeah, that is true. Tessa nods. The woman continues on.

“You are an adventurer. A seeker—an adventurer in your mind. You are interested in the power of the woman, a woman’s deep strength and creativity. You are becoming this woman.” She clasps her hands shut over Tessa’s and looks past her, at Scott. Still speaking to Tessa, she goes on. “You need to resign yourself to the awkwardness of life. Only if you find peace within yourself will you find true connection with others.”

“Is this a stranger to you?” She looks between her and Scott. “I guess so.” 

There’s a twinkle in her eye and damn, she looks like she knows something Tessa doesn’t. She moves over and takes Scott’s hand in hers and Tessa has to suppress a giggle. Scott looks positively mortified. The woman smiles a knowing smile at Tessa as she traces his palm. “You will be alright—he’s learning.” She winks and lets go of Scott’s hand.

“Five euros, please.” She pockets the money and saunters off through the small square, stopping once to look back at them. Her beads and bracelets jingle as she moves. 

“You are both stars, don’t forget. When the stars exploded billions of years ago, they formed everything in this world, including you. You are stardust.”

When she’s sufficiently far away, Tessa looks back over at Scott and they both burst out into laughter.


	3. 'cause i've had my fair share of take care and goodbyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A makeshift beach, backstories and a violin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! It's been a bit, and I apologize, but real life (and two one-shots) got in the way.
> 
> We're back in Scott's head again for this one. The church they're at is the Franziskanerkirche and the beach bar mentioned is based off Tel Aviv by Neni, which is actually open on the banks of the Danube canal in the warm months. It's definitely worth a visit!

Holding hands with a pretty girl in a city known for romance is about as good as it gets, Scott thinks, as he and Tessa leave the café and slowly make their way across the square.

She slipped her hand in his a moment ago, and he gave it a squeeze, and she looked over at him and smiled. They’d done this before, briefly, at the Prater after they first kissed, but he was wary, still, of repeating the gesture.

He doesn’t know if the kiss (and the one that followed it at the café) were a one-time thing or a night-long deal, a spell that’ll be broken only by the sunrise. And even though they kissed, and her lips slotted themselves onto his in the most perfect of ways, holding hands like this, with her pinky between his thumb and forefinger, is still such an intimate thing and he hopes he’s not overstepping.

But, she squeezed his hand and her eyes are sparkling and he can’t help but smile.

Truthfully, he didn’t expect any of this when he took the leap and asked her to come with him. Now, their hands entwined and their shoulders brushing every second step, he realizes it looks obvious, but he swears he wasn’t jonesing for a fling. He really did just want to talk to her, for as long as she’d let him.

This? This is all extra, and he’s grateful, yeah, elated even, but he thinks even if they hadn’t touched at all he’d still board his plane a happy man, after a night full of laughter and conversation.

They pass a little church on their way to the river and he’s not sure what propels him to do it, but he nudges her and they change course and head toward it.

“Is it still open?” she asks, looking over at him as he’s already going up to the door. Churches are places of asylum, he read once, and maybe that means they don’t get locked.

He knows there’s a deep flaw in his logic but he doesn’t really care because sure enough, the door opens and his jaw drops as he steps inside. The gothic architecture is stunning, all high, vaulted ceilings in dark grey stone, stained glass everywhere and too many candles to count. Scott wouldn’t consider himself an overly religious man—he goes to church on Christmas for his mother’s sake and wears a cross because it used to belong to his grandfather—but this is something else and he’s awed.

Tessa seems similarly taken aback and he looks over to watch her, wrapping his arms around his chest. He can’t help but feel endeared by the way her eyes widen and flit around the room, stopping at the altar and the ornate tabernacle.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispers, and her voice has changed pitch as it echoes faintly around the space.

“Yeah,” he whispers back, and he hopes she doesn’t notice that he isn’t looking at the church anymore, hasn’t been for a while now.

They sit down in a pew in the back and she leans her head on his shoulder. It’s comfortable, like she’s been doing it forever, and he wraps an arm around her gently, drawing lazy circles on her shoulder blade.

“I didn’t grow up religious, you know,” she says, after a few moments of silence. He turns his head so he can better look at her, trying to figure out where she’s going with this. The light from all the candles is reflected in her eyes, and they look like they’re dancing. “But every time I’m in a church like this, it just kind of hits me. It’s that feeling you get, deep in your chest—like something’s out there that’s bigger than you. Or maybe I’m just crazy.”

She lets out a self-deprecating chuckle and shakes her head.

“No, you’re not.” He’s quick to reassure her, with words and a squeeze to the shoulder.

“Sometimes, I think about the fact that we’re just specks in this big, giant universe, you know? It’s weird because we’re leading these little lives and we think everything is so big and important. But when you boil it down, how much influence can one person have on the world?”

He doesn’t really know what to say to that, because she’s right. He thinks about it sometimes, when he’s at the boards watching his skaters. It’s figure skating, not brain surgery, and he’s never going to change the world by being a coach.

“Yeah,” he says eventually. He scrubs a hand over his face and tries to think of the right words. “I don’t know how important changing the world really is though, in the grand scheme of things. There are plenty of people who would be better at that than me.” Tessa lets out a chuckle and Scott feels his lips quirk up into a smile. “I just want to be remembered as a kind person, you know? As someone who loved his family and wanted to do right by the people who he came across. Everything else is extra.”

She hums. “Yeah, I like that.” When she turns to him, Scott can’t help but brush an errant strand of hair out of her face. She’s looking at him with those big eyes of hers, open and trusting, and he counts his lucky stars they ended up here, together, in a church in the middle of Vienna.

It doesn’t feel real somehow, more like they’re on borrowed time, in a weird liminal space where their actual lives don’t matter. He likes it though, likes getting to steal time with Tessa and escape for a little while.

After a few minutes spent in comfortable silence, she turns to him. “Where do we go next?”

 

Next turns out to be the Danube, even though it’s already beginning to get dark outside. They get to the riverfront and Tessa stops, turning so she can face the water. The rippling waves are illuminated by the moonlight and it’s beautiful to see, with the twinkling lights of the city in the background.

Of course, the whole scene is made even more beautiful by the woman standing at the railing. Tessa is standing with her back to him and her hair is cascading softly over her shoulders. He traces the curve of her shoulder and line of her back with his eyes and has to stop himself when his visual appreciation starts venturing a bit too far south. _Behave yourself, Moir._

Instead of ogling, he positions himself next to her and places a hand beside hers on the cool metal. He’s pleasantly surprised when she begins to inch hers closer, eventually covering his fingers with her small ones. He turns his hand under hers and she adjusts her grip, twining her fingers with his. He squeezes her hand and feels a sense of contentment bloom deep within his chest.

Her hand in his feels so natural, like it’s meant to be, and he worries that he’s getting a bit too attached to the feeling. She’ll be gone by morning and he will too, and it’s probably not wise to try to learn every line and small callous on her hand, like the palm reader had done earlier.

But Scott’s always been a _live in the present_ kind of guy, so he simply gives her hand another squeeze and they start walking along the riverbank.

“Would you be in Paris by now, if you hadn’t gotten off the train with me?” he asks, mentally calculating how long it would’ve taken her—her train would probably cross through Switzerland in the process.

“No, not yet.” She pauses, considering. “What would you be doing right now if I hadn’t?”

What would he be doing? Wallowing in his current situation, most likely. With no more cities to visit and only time to kill, he wonders how much he would let his mind wander to self-deprecating places. He doesn’t tell her that though. “Sitting in the airport, reading that boring book I bought, trying to find coffee and internet, probably,” he says instead, and it’s not a lie. It’s just a wilful omission of some of the downright pathetic things he’d probably be doing at the airport gate.

Tessa smiles, leaning closer into his side as they walk along the riverbank. They’re silent for a beat before she speaks again.

“Actually, now that I think about it, I might’ve gotten off the train in Salzburg with someone else.” She’s smirking, and Scott barks out a laugh.

“So I’m just the shoo-in Canuck keeping you company for the night, eh?”

She laughs and he can’t help but grin. “Something like that.”

They stumble upon the beach bar by accident, as they’re crossing one of the many bridges that span the canal and Tessa lets out an excited squeak when she spots it. It’s the closest thing they’ll get to a tropical vacation in central Europe—canvas beach chairs, sand, beach umbrellas and fake palm trees. There’s a DJ playing music in a corner, and a hut selling drinks and snacks. Tessa manages to snag them some chairs while Scott goes and gets drinks: a beer for himself and a white wine spritzer for her.

Once he’s settled down into the striped canvas, Scott lets out a sigh. “This is the life, Virtch, truly.”

She hums in agreement. Scott thinks it really is; it’s nice to prop their feet up after half a day of walking and taking in the city.

“You should’ve picked another continent to go on vacation in if you’re so fond of the beach,” she muses, taking a sip of her wine. “Europe’s not exactly known for its tropical climate.”

He lets out a hollow chuckle, looking intently at his beer bottle and worrying with the label. He manages to push the nail of his thumb under the paper and it starts peeling off in ugly, jagged chunks. “Didn’t have much of a choice with this particular journey.”

Tessa leans forward on her chair and places her hand on his knee. “I’m sorry if I overstepped, Scott.” He meets her gaze, her eyes soft and full of concern and so, so green. He wants all the worry to fade from her beautiful face.

But he’s the one who brought it up in the first place, so he takes a deep breath. “No, Tess, you didn’t know.” He covers her hand with his own again, squeezing it gently. “I flew to Madrid three weeks ago to see my girlfriend.” He clears his throat. “Well, more like ex-girlfriend now.”

He tells her about Kaitlyn, about how she moved to Madrid at the beginning of the school year to teach English to little kids, about how long-distance seemed doable at first but near impossible just weeks later. He tells her about making plans with Marie and Patch and Sam so he could get time off from coaching and fly all the way to surprise her.

He tells her about the shock on his ex-girlfriend’s face as she saw him at the doorstep of her apartment, how it’d been less excitement and more confusion, about how she’d questioned whether he could afford to take all the time off ten minutes after he stepped foot in her living room.

He realizes now that it should have been the first red flag of the whole trip, that matters would just get worse from then on out. He’d expected her to show him around her new (temporary) home, take the long weekend he’d deliberately planned his visit around to bring him to her favourite parts of Spain. He’d expected dancing, and romance, and lots of red wine—and most of all, he’d expected to feel whole again.

The reality, however, turned out to be entirely different.

Kaitlyn left him to his own devices most of the time, said unintelligible things about lesson planning and curriculum development and spent an awful lot of time cozying up to David, one of the other exchange teachers assigned to their school.

It all came to a head one Friday evening when Scott had suggested tapas and dancing, and Kaitlyn insisted she needed to go mark quizzes with David, and all of a sudden, there were no words left to say anymore. Scott left her apartment that night, and she didn’t even tell him _goodbye_.

He looked up Montreal-bound flights on his phone, sitting cross-legged on his small hotel bed, a bottle of wine on the nightstand next to him, and the lively sound of street music filtering in through the window.

The cheapest flight back left out of Vienna, but only in two weeks’ time. He’d been planning on staying in Europe that long anyway, so he checked Eurail on a whim and realized a pass cost only a bit more than his planned trip with Kaitlyn to see Granada.

And so, two weeks later, he’s sitting in a lawn chair on the banks of the Danube in Vienna, fresh from an impromptu cross-continent train journey.

“Yeah,” he says, looking down at the sand beneath his feet. “That’s why I’m not in the Bahamas right now.”

“Scott—” Tessa starts, and he can tell she’s about to pity him. He doesn’t want that though; he wants to focus on this night and the beautiful woman next to him and forget about the real world for just a few hours longer.

He clears his throat. “I’m fine, really,” he says, looking at her, his eyes pleading. “The two weeks were a good break, and this night is even better.” He holds up his beer to her. “To new beginnings, and doing reckless things.”

She clinks her glass against the bottle and smiles. “Okay. To new beginnings and reckless things.”

 

When they head back toward the city centre, arm in arm again, she starts speaking in a whisper.

“I broke up with my last serious boyfriend before I moved to Paris. In retrospect, the guy was a douche, but hey, we’re all young once, right?” She chuckles and he presses a soft kiss to the top of her head. “His name was Ryan, and when he told me he thought I was t _oo in love with him_ , I threw his underwear, pants and toothbrush out my apartment window. It was December.”

“Tess, you’re a certified badass! I cannot believe you!”

She laughs, shaking her head. “He so deserved it. Oh, if you ever want a funny mental image, imagine a guy going commando, and wearing boots and a huge parka as he trudges through the snow to find his jeans.”

“Oh my god.” He’s doubling over laughing now, picturing Tessa, of all people, gleefully watching her ex hopping around in a foot of snow like a puppy.

He wonders how many times she’ll tell that story in the future, and has told it before. Because Ryan’s just a story to her now, like Kaitlyn is to him. And in a few hours, he’ll become a story to her too—Scott, the random guy from Ilderton with whom she spent twelve hours in Vienna on a whim.

 _Time travel_ , just like he’d said on the train.

It seemed so simple at the time, but now, he wonders how he’ll tell everyone he knows the story of Tessa Virtue, the dancer turned fashion marketer from London who he kissed on a Ferris wheel in Vienna that one time. And who, because their time together was never meant to happen, he might never see again.

He has to stop his train of thought because it’s not over yet. They’ve got their bubble till the sun rises, and he plans to make the most of it.

They’ve reached another little square, which seem to dot the city of Vienna like ice rinks dot Canada. There’s a man with an accordion and another with a violin on the far side. They’re playing an unidentifiable tune, and Scott catches Tessa’s eyes, his lips quirking upward into a broad smile.

“Dance with me?” She looks surprised for a split-second there but then takes his outstretched hand willingly. He pulls her close and they just stand there, swaying, for a little bit. Eventually, he adjusts his grip so that they’re in a proper dance hold.

There’s an unspoken question in her gaze, and Scott winks. “I coach in the same rink as world-class ice dancers. And my mother held out hope of me finding a partner for quite some time.”

She seems to accept his explanation and lets him lead her into a simple set of steps. He’s surprised at how natural this feels with her, how easily they fall into a rhythm, and he wonders idly what it would be like to dance with Tessa if they both had blades on their feet.

“You’re good at this,” she murmurs, moving close so she can fit her face into the crook of his neck. Steps are once again forgotten as he pulls her flush and breathes her in, that unique combination of vanilla and flowers and possibly strawberries that he’ll associate with Tessa and this night for the rest of his life.

Eventually, they stop moving altogether and Scott reaches up to run a thumb across her cheek. He catches her eyes going wide and the subtle part of her lips. His eyes flick up and down and she nods, almost imperceptibly.

It’s all the invitation he needs and he captures her lips with his own. She pushes herself up on her tiptoes for better access and fists her hands in his hair. His hands land on her waist, dangerously close to her ass. Their mouths fit together much as their hands do, and a shiver runs down his spine when she opens her mouth to brush her tongue along the seam of his lips.

He thinks he could do this forever—kiss Tessa in a public square in the middle of Vienna and commit all of her mouth and face to memory—and he has half a mind to follow through with that plan, if it weren’t for the wolf whistle that erupts from the general direction of the musicians. “Hey, Turteltauben! Geht’s nach Haus, dort macht's noch mehr Spaß!”

They break apart, both blushing like idiots. Tessa is trying to hold back nervous giggles and Scott’s neck feels like it’s on fire. Thankfully, Tessa saves the situation. “Coffee?” she suggests, pulling out her phone to look up places that are still open at the late hour.

“Yeah, coffee sounds great.”


	4. red letter day, and i'm in a blue mood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another train ride, more coffee, and emails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello! This chapter is the last one that follows the actual film, so please rest assured that I do indeed have plans for the ending that go beyond this. (If you've seen the film and been wondering about me leaving out some bits, it's purely because I've found out that writing something based on just dialogue and little action is not the easiest if you take away all the visual cues the film provides.)
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and if you ever find yourself in Vienna, make sure to pop into Café Central (or Landtmann, or Hawelka, or Demel, etc.)!
> 
> Many thanks to restlessvirtue for talking chunks of this through with me!

If there’s one thing Vienna is known for, it’s the cafes. They dot every street and corner and square, and there’s a feeling associated with them that Tessa hasn’t really experienced anywhere else.

She’s in awe when she steps foot into Café Central with Scott, taking in the high arches and vaulted ceilings and the chandeliers and plush red seats. The round marble tables are littered with little silver trays containing coffee cups and tiny water glasses, in typical Viennese style, and it’s like there’s something new and unexpected to discover behind every pillar.

They walk past the colourful statue of Peter Altenberg and find a booth near the back of the café, settling in to the cozy atmosphere of the place. Tessa has read about Café Central before, about its legendary status as a makeshift home for writers and thinkers, and she’s in awe of the fact that she’s sitting in the same place that Freud and Kafka and Polgar once frequented. It feels sacred somehow, like she’s in a place that’s been witness to great minds and their secrets.

“Earth to T,” she hears, and looks up at Scott, who’s eyeing her with the softest of gazes, mirth in his eyes. “You good there?”

She lets out a laugh. “Yeah, just kind of stunned that we’re here. It’s beautiful.”

“It really is.” He says it and she can’t help but notice he’s still looking directly at her; it makes her flush a pretty shade of pink. He’s been so sweet and kind and downright romantic and she can’t help but want to make this little bubble of theirs—where the world doesn’t matter and it’s just the two of them—last forever.

All too soon, a waiter interrupts them, in typical Viennese fashion, and they order coffees and a piece of Sachertorte to split. If Scott pushes the plate further toward her once it’s deposited in the middle of the marble table and winks, well then sue her if she winks right back and pulls the plate even closer. She loves chocolate and he told her earlier that he cares more for savoury than sweet—so it’s not exactly unfair that she’s taken the cake hostage, so to speak.

Scott shakes his head and lets out a chuckle. “It’s all yours.”

Tessa grins.

Half a slice of cake later, she’s taking a coffee break when the idea hits her. She grins, and watches Scott’s eyebrows shoot up in that way she’s realized he does when his interest is piqued.

“I’m going to call my friend who I’m supposed to have lunch with this afternoon,” she says, and uses her hand to pick up an imaginary phone. “Ring, ring.” Scott looks at her with wide eyes and amusement, and she gestures to him. “You’re supposed to pick up the phone!”

He chuckles and she just shakes her head. This won’t work if he doesn’t play along.

When his hand is up by his ear she speaks again. “Joannie, hi! You won’t believe where I am! I don’t think I can make it to lunch after all.”

“Tessa! Where are you?” He pitched his voice high and she fights to suppress a chuckle.

“I’m in Vienna—for one night—with a stranger I met on a train.”

“ _Oulala_ , quel scandale!”

Tessa almost can’t bite back a laugh at that one, and has to cover her hand with her mouth.

“Yes, I know. I’m surprised I went with him in the first place. He could be an axe murderer, for all I know…” Scott’s look of feigned offence—coupled with his eyebrows slanting upward to an impossible degree—turns out to be her breaking point. She doubles over laughing and has to brace herself on the table. Scott has joined in too, and she reaches over to give his hand a squeeze.

“For the record,” she says, when she regains the ability to breathe, “I don’t think you’re gonna murder me in my sleep.”

“Good to know, kiddo.”

They ‘call’ Scott’s brother Danny next, and Tessa lowers her voice and asks him how a “hot chick” agreed to follow him off a train. When Scott says he has no idea, and that she’s the most beautiful girl he thinks he’s ever seen, her whole body flushes crimson.

 

Tessa doesn’t know if you can develop a _thing_ with someone if you’ve only known them for a few hours. But if she had to pick something, a _thing_ that she and Scott share, she’d have to go with the funny little handhold he came up with a few hours ago.

Her pinky finger is slotted in his hand, and she thinks this objectively shouldn’t feel natural, but somehow it does. They’re traipsing through the streets again, and she’s busy counting cobblestones and almost misses when he starts to talk.

“Do you ever think about how everything is so finite? I think that’s what makes our time—and specific moments, so important.” He says it with melancholy in his tone, and she’s glad her arm is looped in his so that she can rest her head against his shoulder again.

It’s a minute before she speaks, having weighed the words out carefully in her mind. “It’s the same for us tonight though. After tomorrow morning, we’re probably never gonna see each other again.”

It’s true, though she hates to admit it. She’d much rather stay here, with Scott, or magically transport him to Paris, or her to Montreal. But that’s just not feasible—as much as it makes her sad.

“You think we won’t see each other again?” There’s genuine disappointment in his voice and she feels a sting of regret in her chest that she brought this up in the first place.

“What do you think?” It’s easier to redirect the question than to confront the truth sometimes.

“Well, gosh, I don’t know. I hadn’t planned another—”

“Yeah, me neither.” She’s quick to reassure, with her words and a squeeze of his arm. It’s just meant to last for a night, this funny little arrangement of theirs, and isn’t it better that way?

It’d be too complicated to try to continue, to deal with cross-continental communication and timezones and longing and no idea when (if ever) they’d see each other again. No, it’s much easier to stick to pre-planned constraints and singular moments and cherish this memory without tainting it with the real world.

Scott hums, nodding in agreement. “I mean, why _should_ relationships last forever? Why do you have to get to the part where you inevitably get sick of one another and start to find each other’s flaws? Why can’t you just keep the happy memories?”

“Yeah.” She’s inclined to agree, even though a niggling part of her mind wants to paint pictures of lazy nights spent on the sofa, of the pitter-patter of small feet, of Jeopardy and Sunday crosswords and kitchen dance parties. She takes a breath and holds it, willing her thoughts to still.

“You know what?” He turns to her, places his hands on her shoulders. “We’re going to make tonight great—no illusions, no projections. Just you and me till the sun comes up and we have to say goodbye. _Time travel_ , Tess, we gotta make sure we make it good for our future selves.”

She laughs, and it comes out as a half-hearted, hollow sound. “Well, now all I’m gonna think about is the end. And that’s no fun, is it?”

Scott presses a kiss to her forehead. “Well, let’s say goodbye now then. Get it out of the way, so we don’t have to think about it anymore.” He steps backward and holds out his hand for her to shake. “Goodbye, Tess.”

She takes is, gives it a gentle squeeze. “Bye, Scott.”

“Au revoir.”

“Auf Wiedersehen.”

“Later.” He winks at that one, before taking the step back toward her, wrapping her up in his arms and whispers into her ear, comforting and low. “It’s over and done now. And we’ve got so many hours left.”

 

Through fate, luck, and the subtle arts of deception and distraction, they manage to walk out of a rather dingy bar with a bottle of red wine—which Scott got from the barkeep, promising a hefty tip, after explaining they only had hours left and didn’t know if they’d ever meet again—and two wine glasses that Tessa snuck into her backpack from the tray in the corner. 

They’re giggling like schoolchildren when they leave, giddy on the adrenaline and excitement of it all. Their destination is the Burggarten, an old public park with sprawling grass and plenty of trees.

They sit down on the lawn and Scott deftly uncorks the wine with something in his keychain, she doesn’t bother asking what, just accepts the glass of wine he hands her and takes a sip. She gingerly sets it down in the grass and lies back, resting her head on her backpack and looking up at the sky.

The city lights are ever-present, but she can make out the moon and some stars and it’s comforting somehow, to know she’s looking at the same sky she’d be seeing in Paris (or Montreal). Scott lowers himself down beside her, and she shifts a little so she can tuck herself into the juncture between his neck and shoulder. She holds her breath for a beat, worried she’s overstepped, but he just loops an arm around her and presses a kiss to her hair.

It’s quiet, save the sounds of their breathing and the faint noise of crickets in the air, and it sends the gears in her mind spinning.

“I don’t think we should have sex,” she blurts out before she realizes she’s even said it.

Scott stiffens beneath her and she wishes she could rewind approximately five seconds.

“What?” He says the word slowly, like he’s testing what it feels like on his tongue.

“No, not like that.” She’s quick to explain. “I just mean—we’ve only got tonight, you know, and if we go all the way—” god, when did she start sounding like her grandmother “—I just don’t know if it’s a good idea. Because in the morning we’ll be on different continents and I just, I don’t want to think about the fact that you’ll inevitably do this,” she gestures around, “with someone else.”

He’s quiet for a second, then says “yeah, I get that, I’d feel the same, I think,” and squeezes her shoulder. He presses another kiss to the top of her head and she hopes she hasn’t made this too awkward. She needs a segue.

“Do you know what I want, though?” she says a bit later, and turns her head to the side so they’re looking at one another before flicking her gaze down to his lips and then back up again. “To be kissed.”

She desperately does, she wants to feel the warmth of his lips on hers and imprint the memory forever.

“Well, I can do that.”

He smiles and shifts so he’s lying on his side, head propped up on one arm. With the other, he cups her cheek gently, waiting till she shifts so she’s on her side as well. She can feel his warm breath on her skin and her eyes flutter shut as his lips meet hers, slow and gentle. His hand moves to the back of her head, cradling her skull, and she cups his strong shoulder.

His tongue traces the seam of her lips and she parts them willingly, letting out a soft breathy noise as he licks into her mouth. She feels herself inching nearer, unconsciously pressing their bodies together, as close they’ll possibly go. They kiss for what feels like forever, until they both need air, and she rests her forehead against his when they break apart.

His eyes are beautiful from this angle, deep brown with flecks of hazel and she’s entranced. She can’t imagine never seeing these eyes again. God, screw all of it.

“I don’t want to waste this night.” She screws her eyes shut and searches for words. “And I don’t—I don’t want to think that we’ll never see each other again. Scott, tonight has been… I can’t even describe it. But I don’t want it to ever end.”

He kisses her, quick and hard. “T, if someone gave me the choice right now, of to never see you again or to marry you—” he flicks his eyes across her face, from her cheeks to her forehead to her nose and lips and back to her eyes again, “—I’d marry you.”

He says it with so much wide-eyed sincerity that it takes her breath away for a bit.

“Really?”

He chuckles, as if he’s not quite believing the words he just said. “Yeah.”

“God damn it, I want to sleep with you, you know that?” He nods. Of course he does; she can feel that he wants the same. “I just—”

“Email.”

“What?” _Where the hell is this going?_

“We’ll email, Tess, and we’ll do that thing where we follow each other on the Instagram thingy. And we’ll keep in touch, and we’ll update each other on our lives. And we won’t forget tonight.”

She nods. “Okay.”

This time, she she surges forward to kiss him, all teeth and tongue. She grabs at his hair, at the shirt on his shoulders, trying to get as close as she can. Email has never held so much promise as it does in this moment, so much hope attached to one stupid form of electronic exchange. He wants to email, and he’s a dork who probably ignores WhatsApp and calls Instagram a “thingy” but he wants this, just as much as she does.

She rolls them both so she’s straddling him, hair fanning over her face and surrounding his. She can feel him eager beneath her, and god, she wants this, has never wanted anything this much in her life. She slips a hand beneath the hem of his shirt, scratches lightly at the rippling muscle she finds there, and grins as he shudders.

“Scott,” she whispers, right into the shell of his ear. “I don’t care about you or me hypothetically doing this with someone else in the future. I care about tonight.”

“Me too.” His breath is ragged and his face is flushed, hair mussed and he’s never been more beautiful to her.

“Take your shirt off.”

 

“What do you think is the first thing you’re gonna do, when you get back to Paris?”

“Hmm, I don’t know. Groceries, probably? Call my mother?” They’re walking hand-in-hand to the train station, the sun is shining, and she should be happy, blissfully sated and basking in the warmth. She is, to an extent, but there’s a feeling settling in the pit of her stomach, like they’ve hit the last grains in an hourglass and time’s about to run out.

She doesn’t want it to. She wants to freeze this forever.

“We’re back in real time.” He says it, right on cue, and she lets out a heavy sigh.

They are, and she hates it. She knows they’ll email, they’ll message, they’ll follow each other on Instagram. But they won’t call—they agreed to that last night, under the cover of the moonlight on the soft grass, tangled together and never wanting to let go. Calling and Skyping is too much, and yet not enough, and they don’t want to risk it. They don’t know when this is going to pick up again— _if_ this is going to pick up again—and one form of torture is enough for them both.

 

When she’s standing at the train platform, people milling about, she feels like she’s heading to a funeral. Scott is across from her, looking similarly devastated, and she wonders for a fleeting second if this was all a horrible mistake—if she let herself be tricked into a night of recklessness, only to have it hurt her irreparably once real life kicks in again.

But then she looks at him, and remembers, and realizes that memories of tonight are going to be painful, sure, but she wouldn’t trade them for the world. Tears are welling up in her eyes—and his too, she notices with a small smile—and she feels small, in the hubbub of it all, clutching at her suitcase.

“C’mere,” Scott says, and she doesn’t have to be told twice. She flings herself at him, holds on for dear life, wishes hugs could initiate time travel and send them back to yesterday.

He loosens his grip and she drops down to her feet again, looking down at the floor. She has no idea what to say, no words that fit this moment.

Scott tips up her chin. “Six months.”

“What?”

“I want to see you again. And I know this is shit and we’re too far apart but I don’t think I could live with myself not knowing when I’ll see you again. So, six months from now? Does that seem fair?”

“Yes,” she blurts out, “six months from yesterday.”

He grins, and he’s properly crying now and she probably is too, but six months sounds better than _sometime, maybe_ and it’s going to hurt but there’s an end in sight. 

“I’ll see you six months from yesterday, at the Paris airport.” 

“I’ll be there.”

“I’d be mad if you weren’t.”

She laughs and surges forward to kiss him, one more time, because she needs the feeling of his lips to be as fresh on her mind as possible. He seems to feel the same, kissing her with an urgency she can feel throughout her whole body. She can’t bring herself to care they’re on a public platform.

They break apart when the conductor blows his whistle and she knows she has to get on the train. He gives her one last hug, one last squeeze, one last peck, and one last smile.

They’ll have to last her six months. She’ll make sure they will.

“See you in six months, Scott,” she says, pushing herself up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. She turns around on her heel and steps into the train, looking back at him one more time.

“Goodbye, Tessa Jane.”

It’s the last thing she hears before the train door slides shut and she heads down the aisle toward her compartment.


	5. send me the miles and i'll be happy to

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A plane ride, thirst traps and text-based communication.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've hit the end! Ahh! Thank you so much for all the support and love for this little story, it's been such a joy to write. This chapter fully leaves the film behind and is Scott's POV followed by Tessa's.
> 
> Thank you to [restlessvirtue](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/restlessvirtue/pseuds/restlessvirtue) for talking and reading through this and to [falsettodrop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/falsettodrop/pseuds/falsettodrop) for helping me work out the ending.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Scott’s phone pings and he curses under his breath. Now is _not_ the time. He’s standing at the boards watching one of his students work through a sequence of jumps and damn it, he needs to focus.  
  
But it’s like his subconscious has other ideas because he’s hit the button on his screen before he knows what he’s doing.  
  
_@tessavirtue17 added to their story_  
  
Scott makes the mental six-hour calculation for time difference and realizes it’s 10:30 at night in Paris right now. He really should not go look at this, lest he lose all semblance of focus, but once again, his brain seems to have checked out a bit ago and he presses his thumb to the home button. When it unlocks and the story pops up, Scott nearly drops his phone on the boards with a clatter.  
  
It’s Tessa, lying on her side on a very pretty pink upholstered vintage sofa, in a green room with panelled French doors. She’s wearing a black jumpsuit with a deep v that nearly comes down to her bellybutton and sky-high black stilettos; her hair is swept back in a low ponytail. And to make matters worse, she’s got one leg artfully (or, uh, scandalously, his addled brain supplies) elevated high up in the air. A dancer, indeed.  
  
Scott feels all his blood drain very quickly to lower parts of his body and he lets out a groan. Damn this woman. Just that minute, Marie decides to walk past him. “Scott, is everything alright?”  
  
He winces and looks up at Marie. “It’s great.” When his student makes her way toward him, Scott lets out a shaky exhale. “Let’s, uh, take five, Maddie. I’ll be right back.”  
  
The thing is this: Scott got on a plane in Vienna four months ago, with an Instagram handle, an email address, and memories to last him a lifetime. When he and Tessa agreed to only text-based forms of communication, he was convinced this would be the easiest and least painful option for them both.  
  
But apparently, and this he really should have taken into consideration, Tessa Virtue can be crafty when she wants to. And _oh_ , she wants to alright.  
  
Scott has never been one to use social media—he barely follows two dozen people on his Instagram—but with Tessa it's different. He wants to see her posts, and get her messages, and not miss her stories (he’s finally figured out what those are now) and he’s had to go to the resident rink expert for help.  
  
When he first went to Sam and explained the situation, the other man laughed and just shook his head in disbelief. Leave it to Scott to end up in a quasi-romantic but undefined situation that requires him to stay on social media, even if only to lurk. After Sam got over his initial shock, he became Scott’s most reliable virtual wingman and showed him how to turn on post notifications for Tessa.  
  
They talk regularly, at least twice a day, whenever the time difference allows, sending back and forth mundane life updates and silly selfies and just letting the other know they’re there. Scott finds himself grinning at his phone every time he gets a notification from Tessa, and if he chided himself for being a pining idiot at the beginning, he now finds he’s too attached to really care.  
  
And every once in a while, she posts a story with sound and he can hear her voice or her laugh and his chest aches because they agreed talking would be too hard but he thinks this is harder—hearing her in seconds-long snippets without context. Sometimes, she’ll message him and he won’t realize it’s the middle of the night in Paris. She’ll talk idly of Vienna, of the cafés and the dancing and the kissing, _god, the kissing_ , and he’ll feel an ache deep inside his chest.  
  
The thing is, and he really should have seen this coming, they left things very vague between them. Except for the day he’s meant to go to Paris, they set no constraints or rules, because what happened between them occurred outside of real life and there’s no point trying to pretend otherwise. Still, he hasn’t so much as thought of another woman since he got back to Montreal, and selfishly, he hopes Tessa hasn’t fallen for the charms of a Frenchman either.  
  
If her messages and posts are any indication though, Scott might just be okay.  
  
The last time Sam had scrolled through Tessa’s feed on Scott’s phone, he’d let out a whistle. “Ouf, she’s good with the thirst traps, no?”  
  
“Good with the what?”  
  
That was the day Scott learned what a thirst trap is, and realized, as his ears and neck turned a progressively deeper shade of crimson, that Tessa Virtue is, well, to put it bluntly, thirst trapping _him_. And if Sam’s excitement is any indication, the only appropriate response to this whole thing is to thirst trap her back.  
  
Except for, well, he doesn’t really know how he’s supposed to go about this. Sam’s enthusiasm and suggestion for gym photoshoots seem a little bit much, and Scott worries that posting something on his incredibly sparse feed that’s worlds away from pictures with his brothers and beer-league hockey and figure skating camps might shock the tiny number of followers he has to their core.  
  
Eventually, he decides on a game plan. When he gets home from the gym, he pulls off his t-shirt and keeps his low-slung shorts on. Then, he takes out his phone and heads to the mirror in his bathroom, where he makes sure his hair isn’t _too_ mussed. Eventually, he stands in his bedroom and tries to take selfies—ideally of his chest, which he’s sucked in a bit to give more prominence to his abs.  
  
It takes him a good ten minutes to come up with something mildly acceptable and he winces when he looks through his camera roll full of blurry attempts. He selects the best shot, puts it in a message to Tessa (because he cannot bring himself to actually post the thing), writes “had a good ab day,” hits send and promptly closes his eyes in shame.  
  
_Shit shit shit._  
  
He’s about to send an apology, or an explanation, or something when he gets back one message.  
  
_Eggplant emoji, peach emoji, water emoji, fire emoji, kissing face._  
  
He doesn’t think he should go to Sam to help him translate that.

 

It’s about a week and a half from the day that Scott is supposed to fly to Paris, and he can’t stop checking his phone. He hasn’t had a message or a story or a post from Tessa in almost a day, and he’s beginning to get worried.  
  
She never does this, she always messages at least once a day, and when she can’t, she tells him in advance.  
  
But now, well now she hasn’t given any indication of being online or okay in almost twenty-four hours and Scott is pacing the side of the boards. He can’t help but shake the feeling that something happened, but he can do fuck-all about it because all he has is her Instagram handle and email, and he doesn’t even know where exactly she lives.  
  
He’s close to treading a hole into the carpet by the rink when he feels a hand on his shoulder. “You okay, man?” Sam says, and he looks genuinely worried.  
  
“Yeah. I just haven’t heard from Tess in a while,” he says and shrugs his shoulders. It’s not like he can do anything to change the situation he’s in, all he can hope for is that there’s some innocent explanation as to why Tessa’s gone a bit MIA.  
  
Sam claps him on the shoulder. “I’m sure it will be alright.” Scott wants to believe him, really does, but the feeling at the pit of his stomach won’t go away. Sam shuffles off and pulls out his own phone, furiously typing away, and Scott takes a deep breath. He has a job to do, and skaters to coach, after all.  
  
When he’s done with his next session, the feeling in the pit of his stomach still hasn’t gone away. He exits the rink and puts on his skate guards, takes a sip of his water and checks his phone. Again, nothing. His last message to her is still unread, and he curses the fact that read receipts exist in the first place. If they didn’t, he wouldn’t be waiting like an idiot for something to appear.  
  
He’s standing by the boards, mindlessly scrolling through his admittedly sparse feed, and he’s about to exit the app when it pings.  
  
_@tessavirtue17 added to their story_  
  
Oh thank fuck. He lets out an audible sigh of relief and taps her picture with shaking fingers. It’s a lovely view of Montreal, he thinks, she really got the city’s best angle. Mount Royal is situated nicely in the frame and—what now?  
  
He stands up ramrod straight and holds his finger down on the picture so it won’t go away. Why is Tessa in Montreal? Why the fuck is she posting a view of the city that looks eerily like it could have been taken outside the rink he’s currently standing in? Why does nothing make sense anymore?  
  
He thinks he might be headed straight for hyperventilation, and really, who could blame him. His finger slips for just a second and her story advances. What he sees next makes his stomach swoop and he nearly falls on his ass.  
  
It’s him, from the back, looking down at something. It’s been taken just seconds ago. There’s no filter, just a simple caption: _when you're trying to get his attention but he won't get off his phone_.  
  
What the fuck?  
  
This cannot be real; he must be hallucinating. But he has to make sure, has to look for himself. He takes a deep breath, and turns around, wobbly on his skate guards. When he looks behind him, his phone falls to the ground with a clatter.  
  
Tessa Virtue is standing right across from him.  
  
Repeat: Tessa Virtue, who by all accounts is supposed to be in Paris right now, is standing not three metres away from him. She’s wearing travelling clothes, her hair is piled up atop her head in an impossible bun, and there’s a shy smile playing around her lips.  
  
Scott is pretty sure he looks a bit like a fish at this precise moment, all wide eyes and gaping mouth, and he doesn’t think he currently possesses the power of speech.  
  
For once in his life, he’s been stunned into silence.  
  
They stand there for seconds that seem to stretch into hours until eventually, Tessa speaks. “Surprise?” she says, quietly, and shrugs her shoulders, like she cannot quite believe this either.  
  
That one word is all it takes, and suddenly, he’s moving again, taking three giant steps toward her and then she’s in his arms, and she’s warm and solid and real and he never, ever wants to let go. He buries his face in the crook of her neck and breathes her in, vanilla and strawberry and Tessa, just like he remembered from all those months ago.  
  
When they break apart, reluctantly, he sets her down on her feet as gently as he can. He didn’t realize he’d hugged her with such intensity that he’d picked her up, and he hopes he didn’t crush her.  
  
When they make eye contact again, he sees she’s been crying, but she’s laughing too, and he’s pretty sure he looks much the same. “Hi,” she whispers, voice full of disbelief.  
  
“Tess.” He takes her hand in his and squeezes it as if she might disappear into thin air if he stops touching her for even a second. “How are you _here_?”  
  
She giggles and the sound goes straight to his heart. “I have a meeting at the Montreal office in two days, and I took some time off around it. I wanted to surprise you.” She blushes, and he beams. “I hope it’s okay that I just showed up out of the blue.”  
  
“Is it—” he can scarcely finish the sentence. He shakes his head in bemusement because of _course,_ it’s okay that she’s here. It’s more than okay. He can barely believe it. “T, this is better than any dream.”  
  
“Yeah?” There’s that giggle again, the one he loves so much.  
  
“Yeah.” And then, after it finally clicks, "How did you know to come here?”  
  
She smirks, that shit-eating Tessa smirk he can’t get enough of, and he knows this is gonna be good. “Sam helped me. I messaged him a few weeks back.”

“That fucker! He kept quiet for _weeks_. He’s so gonna pay for this.”  
  
She laughs and he pulls her in for another hug, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. They sway for a little bit, right next to the rink, before Tessa lets go again.  
  
“I’m sure you have to go back to work,” she starts, looking down at her shoe. “There’s a hotel room booked for me downtown, so I could go check in—”  
  
He stops her before she can finish her sentence. “Tessa Jane, don’t you dare make me stay away from you for even a minute when you’re finally actually real. Stay with me, please? I’ve got a couch if you want it but I can’t bear to let you go again.”  
  
She nods and he beams. “Okay.”

 

* * *

 

Scott’s apartment is located in St. Henri, not too far from the rink. As soon as she’d agreed to stay with him, Scott had immediately gone looking for his bosses and told them he needed the rest of the day off. As much as she’d wanted to tease him for it, she’s truthfully glad they’re getting out of here.

The whole trip, spontaneous as it was, had been hard enough to keep from Scott when he was a whole ocean away, and now that she’s got him, _here_ and breathtakingly real, she doesn’t want to spend a minute away from him.

She thinks she’ll remember the look on his face when he first turned around till the day she dies, all stunned silence and disbelief. She’ll remember the hug he swept her into as well, the feeling of finally being in his arms after nearly six months apart.

Now, they’re in front of his door and the butterflies that took residence in her stomach when she touched down in Montreal are flying around at high speed.

The last few months have been torture, in a way. She realizes it was probably for the best that they limited themselves to such specific communication, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t hard all the same. Hearing from Scott, but almost never _hearing_ him, getting to see photos but never touching him, always wondering and worrying what he was up to.

It took her finding Sam’s account to finally hear his voice again, in a video with a skater Scott was coaching. Sam (this she later pieced together) had helped choreograph the piece and they were working through details. Scott’s silly comments in the background made her heart swoop in her chest.

But now, being there with him is better than anything she could have dreamed.

They get to his front door and Scott makes quick work of unlocking it before stopping dead in his tracks. “Shit,” he mutters, and Tessa just looks at him, utterly confused. “I haven’t cleaned in a few days, and I had no idea you’d be here and just… hang on, okay?”

He pushes open the door just a crack and motions for her to wait outside.

“Just, uh, stay there for a sec, don’t move, I’ll be right back.” He ducks inside and she stifles a laugh and waits as she hears faint rummaging from inside. A few minutes later, he pops his head back out. His hair is a bit ruffled and he looks a tad overwhelmed but Tessa is so endeared that she spares him the sassy comment and just follows him in instead.

The apartment is small but homey and it feels like Scott. There’s hockey memorabilia on the walls, and the colours are warm and inviting. She decides she loves it.

She realizes Scott has been watching her intently from the other side of the room, hands crossed over his chest. He seems to be scoping out whether she likes it or not, and she needs to put him out of his misery.

“It’s perfect,” she says. “It’s better than I imagined it.”

“You imagined my apartment?”

She laughs, high and breathy. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

They’re standing on opposite sides of his living room, and the silence they fell into feels laden with tension.

“T, I’ve—” he says after a minute, and clears his throat. “I haven’t been with anyone since that night. I, uh, it’s fine if you were, because we never said not to, I just, I wanted to let you know, I guess…”

“I haven’t either.” She’s quick to jump in, because it’s what she worried about too but never dared address. Their night was so singular and fleeting, and there was never supposed to be a universe in which they met up again.

But now… well now, they’re standing face-to-face in Scott’s apartment and they’ve basically admitted to having waited for one another.

When she thinks back to this moment in the future, she’s never quite sure who moves first. Sometimes she’s sure she made the first step, other times it’s obviously Scott. All she knows is that they meet in the middle and suddenly, his lips are on hers and her hands are in his hair and his arms are around her waist and her brain is screaming _home, home, home_.

Kissing Scott is like everything she remembered, but better somehow, because now, they’ve got days, not hours, and they get to take their time to learn one another from head to toe.

He backs her into the nearest wall and lavishes attention on her neck where it meets her shoulder, sucking on the soft skin he finds there. She lets out a keening sound, high and needy, and he takes it as a sign to pick her up and carry her to the bedroom.

He deposits her on his sheets and she grins up at him, eyes dancing with delight. He takes off his shirt and she spends a second admiring his chest and abs before pulling him down in a searing kiss. “It’s nice to see you like this in daylight,” she murmurs into his lips, and then, when he pulls back for air, “and in real life, not on a phone screen on ab day.”

He barks out a laugh at that and tickles her sides and Tessa squeals with joy. She’d missed him, so damn much, and she could cry with the enormity of it all.

“When I remembered you,” he says, peppering kisses up and down her sternum, her collarbones, up to her face, “I wasn't doing your eyes justice, and the stupid tinny speakers of my phone could never truly capture that big, beautiful laugh of yours.”

“Well, I’m here now,” she says, smoothing over his hair, her other hand grabbing on to his shoulder. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

 

After, they’re lying in a tangle of limbs and sheets in Scott’s bed. The afternoon sun is streaming in through the curtains and Tessa feels a sense of contentment deep in her chest. 

They’re basking in the afterglow, and Scott is tracing patterns up her arm, playing connect the dots with the freckles on her skin. All of a sudden, he stops in his tracks. She shifts so she’s facing him. “I know this is a bit fast, but Tess...” he starts, and her heart is beating wildly in her chest, “can I have your number?”

She smacks him on the chest for that, because he damn deserves it, and she laughs as he winces with faux pain.

“I figured,” he says, and he’s got a shit-eating grin on that she wants to wipe right off his pretty little face, “that almost six months of messaging the girl and some, dare I say, stellar sex means we’ve gotten close enough to exchange numbers?”

“Hmmm,” she says, drawing out the sound and pretending to think the whole thing over. “I think that could be arranged. Though I might wait to give you my new one, considering international fees and all.”

“What?” She can tell she’s lost him there, but to be honest, she hasn’t quite been sure how to broach the subject, and why she’s really here. To surprise him, of course, but there’s something else to consider too.

“I uh, I got a job offer.”

“Congrats, T, that’s amazing!” His eyes light up in genuine delight and she can’t help but smile.

“It’s internal, and it’s a promotion, but also a relocation.” Scott furrows his brow, clearly confused. “That’s why I’m here… they want to transfer me to Montreal. I’m supposed to visit the office the day after tomorrow.”

His jaw drops open and his face is unreadable, like he’s in a state of shock.

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” she says, her voice low. “I didn’t know where we stood, and this doesn’t have to change anything between us, but I might be living here starting in the new year…”

“Tessa.” He takes her face in his hands and kisses her, once, hard and insistent. She can see tears forming in the corners of his eyes. “You’re gonna live here? In Montreal?”

“If you want me to, yeah.” She feels her own eyes welling up, and a choked sob escapes her throat. She was so scared of telling him, worried that this fragile and frankly odd relationship of theirs had to be confined to liminal spaces, but now that might not be the case.

“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more,” he says, and pulls her in for another kiss.

She laughs when they break apart, and she’s still crying and it’s better than she could have ever imagined. “Me too.”

They lose themselves in each other again, in the joy of the possibility of a future for them finally becoming real. She can finally let herself dream of them, years down the line, together and growing old side by side. It’s liberating, not having to place such a tight lock on her emotions, and she lets herself go with them, pours them all into this moment.

Later, they’ve cuddled up under his sheets again, they’re sated and blissfully spent.

“I thought getting to see little moments of you online was enough to hold onto the memory of you, but now that you're here…” Scott says, his voice full of awe, “I realize it was nothing close to the real thing.”

“I think,” she says, and shifts so she can better see him, “that I always wondered if I made that night into more than it actually was, you know? Kind of over-inflated it in my memories.” She kisses his chest, right over his heart. “Turns out the real thing is even better than what I didn’t let myself dream of.”

He shifts them so they’re lying side-by-side facing one another. He gently pushes a strand of hair from her face and cups her cheek.

“I still can’t believe you’re here.”

“Me neither.”

“I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too.” She shifts forward to kiss him again, slow and sweet, like they’ve got forever to do this. They will, she realizes, because she’s in Montreal till he leaves to go to Paris (with her) and then she’s moving back, and then, well, then the possibilities are endless.

“Scott,” she says, after a few minutes of contented silence. “Remember when you said that night was time travel?”

He hums.

“I don’t think we need it to be. It’s not an escape anymore, it’s a beginning.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make my day. Feel free to yell at me here, or on Tumblr, @good-things-come-in-threes, or Twitter, @_bucketofrice.


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